This Is Home

by Lisa Duffy

  “I guess I have you to thank for getting him to finally fix the sign,” she says, cutting her eyes at the man. “I’m Sally—good to finally meet you in person. I wasn’t expecting you for another two hours, but this works—look . . . they’re awake.”

  She steps into the barn and points to a stall, the door open. Quinn walks forward, peers inside.

  The stall is clean and warm, sunlight streaming through the open window. On the floor is a jumble of moving fur, and it takes Quinn a minute to realize she’s looking at a litter of puppies.

  “You’re a breeder?” Quinn blurts. Sally’s forehead wrinkles and she frowns at her husband.

  “She had the right address,” he says defensively, and looks at Quinn as if she’s tricked him in some way.

  “I’m sorry,” Quinn says quickly. “I just . . . you said dog, and I thought—I’m obviously not who you think I am.”

  “You’re not from the veterinarian’s office, I take it?” Sally asks. “The new tech?”

  Quinn shakes her head. “My name is Quinn.” She pauses. “Quinn Ellis. You met my husband, John . . . a long time ago. He asked you to take our puppy.”

  They’re both silent, looking at Quinn blankly. A minute later, the man’s expression changes.

  “Ah,” he says. “Lucky.”

  “Who?” Sally glances at him. “You mean the dog?”

  Her husband tilts his head at her, waits.

  “Oh! The dog,” she breathes, her eyes wide when she looks at Quinn. “Well, my gosh—we’ve thought about you over the years. I mean, we’ve talked about you!” She looks at her husband, who nods in agreement. “I wanted Steve to keep in touch with your husband, but he didn’t feel it was right.”

  “It wasn’t right—he asked me not to. You have to respect someone’s wishes, Sal. Even if you don’t agree with them.”

  “A text now and again is all I meant,” Sally says. “Sometimes that’s all it takes in these cases. Just someone to say—Hey, there. I see you. I’m here.”

  “Okay, let’s not assume anything.” He gives Quinn an apologetic look. “My wife is a fixer. A very passionate fixer who sometimes meddles where she doesn’t belong.”

  Sally raises an eyebrow at him. “And my husband is a combat veteran and a policeman.” She looks back at Quinn. “And I breed and train service dogs for vets with PTSD. So let’s just say, I’m damn good at recognizing trauma. And your husband—well—he had trauma written all over him. Heck, I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. Spouses are on the front lines dealing with this stuff at home.”

  “I didn’t know if you’d know my name. I wasn’t sure what my husb—” She stops, clears her throat. “I wasn’t sure what John told you when he asked you to take the puppy.”

  “He didn’t tell us anything other than he was home from the war, and his wife surprised him with a puppy, and it just wasn’t going to work,” the man offers. “Then he found out what Sally does, and he was a little more forthcoming.”

  Sally makes a small noise. “Forthcoming is a stretch—he admitted not keeping the puppy was his fault,” she explains. “He didn’t want to talk about himself. But that’s common with guys still serving. They think if they ask for help, they’re jeopardizing their chances for advancement. Putting their careers at risk.”

  “I’m Steve, by the way.” The man holds his hand out to Quinn. She shakes it, and they’re silent for a moment.

  “I like his name,” Quinn tells them. “Lucky. We never even gave him one, and I always wondered . . .”

  “We can’t take credit for that. Our kids came up with it. I’d just started my company.” Sally points to the puppies. “We had our one dog—and the kids were on me and on me to keep one of the puppies, and I flat-out refused. The last thing I needed was to take care of one more thing. Then Steve got a call from Bent. I was dead set against it, but then I met your husband, and I just . . . I couldn’t say no. He was so desperate. Just kept repeating that this was the life the dog deserved. The kids couldn’t believe I said yes—believe me, I couldn’t either.” She chuckles. “So, they came up with the name Lucky. That’s what it was to them. Just great good luck—” She pauses, looks up. “I’m sorry . . . I’m blabbing on and . . . it was probably awful for you.”

  Quinn shakes her head. “No—I mean, yes. I never wanted to give him away. But it’s nice to know he’s in a good home. Bent told me he was, but . . .”

  “But you wanted to see for yourself,” Steve finishes for her. “Well, that we can do.” He steps back, leans out the door, and whistles, a piercing sound that echoes in the barn.

  A minute later, a dog appears in the doorway, wagging his tail and circling Steve’s legs. He runs over to Quinn, and she feels his tongue on her wrist before he bounces over to Sally, a black blur between them.

  Quinn watches him, grins. “I thought I’d be sad, but it’s impossible when he’s so . . . happy. He looks exactly the same. Just bigger.”

  “Tell me about it. He needs to lose a few, but he loves his snacks. And someone shares when he shouldn’t.” Sally slides her eyes over to Steve.

  “Don’t listen to her. You’re perfect,” he tells the dog.

  He looks at Quinn. “So, I hope I’m not prying, but . . . why now? I told John you both could visit. I know he wasn’t interested, but I’m surprised we never heard from you.”

  “He didn’t tell me where he took him. I’m sure I could have pressed him, but I didn’t really see the point. It would have been too hard to see him. Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m here now. Things are a bit unsettled in my life at the moment.” She shrugs. “I guess I wanted to close the loop on something.”

  Sally studies her. “I’ve thought about you often,” she says. “We do a lot of work with vets because we struggled when Steve came home. But my husband was willing to do the work. I see so many guys like John—their wives bring them, and they don’t want the help for one reason or another. But it’s not them I lose sleep over.”

  Sally disappears into the stall. When she comes back, there’s a puppy in her arms.

  “This guy reminded me of Lucky right away. He’s silly and happy and . . . just full of beans.” She holds the dog out to Quinn, who takes him in her arms.

  Sally looks at Quinn. “It’s the wife I lose sleep over. It’s you. The one fighting a war you didn’t ask for.” Sally reaches out and pets the dog, smiles when he burrows his head into Quinn’s neck. “I think he’s just found a new home,” she tells Quinn.

  Quinn doesn’t answer because she’s afraid to blink, as though she’s in a dream, cradling him against her, the smell of his warm body finding a place in her memory. The tiny beat of his heart pulsing against her own.

   23

  Libby

  It’s dark by the time I hear Quinn’s car pull in the driveway. I’ve been listening for her all afternoon, but I wait another fifteen minutes or so before I knock on her door.

  “Can you come upstairs?” I ask when she opens the door. “It’s Rooster.”

  She looks behind her nervously, as though someone’s in the house with her. She steps in the hallway, closes the door carefully behind her.

  “Is he okay?” she whispers. “Where’s Bent?”

  “He’s working,” I say quietly, and then frown at her. “Why are we whispering?”

  I look at the closed door and feel my face flame. I hadn’t heard anyone come in with her, but clearly, someone is inside.

  “Sorry . . . I didn’t mean to interrupt. It’s not a big deal.” I turn for the stairs, and she grabs my arm.

  “Libby. Wait, oh, just come in. I can show you better than explain it.”

  I follow her into her house. She walks into the dining room, waves me over to where she’s standing.

  “Look.” She points to the corner.

  The light in the room is dim, and it takes me a minute to see what she’s pointing at. There’s a small crate on the floor. A blanket spills out of it, where a puppy is curled in a bal
l, sleeping.

  I put my hand over my mouth and look at her, eyes wide.

  “I know,” she says. “Believe me. I know.”

  “Where? I mean how?”

  She sighs. “That’s a story for another day. But I’m not even sure I should keep him. It’s sort of a trial run for the weekend.”

  “Can I?” I ask, and she nods.

  “I actually tried to wake him up, but he’s out cold. I think the trip did him in.”

  I sit on the floor next to him and gently pick him up, put him on my shoulder. He makes a small noise but doesn’t wake up, and I put my nose against his fur, breathe in.

  “You need to keep him—why wouldn’t you!”

  “Because I’m pregnant! And I have a full-time job! And my missing husband who’s just magically reappeared gave away our last puppy. I haven’t even talked to him since he’s been back because I have no idea what I want to say,” she blurts in one breath, and sighs. “It’s not the best time to get a dog.”

  I’m watching her talk, and her eyes haven’t left the puppy since I picked him up. Not once. I tell her that, and she sighs louder.

  “I didn’t even know you were looking for a dog.”

  “I wasn’t—that was the last thing on my mind. It was a gift. And I could’ve said no—I could’ve! But I didn’t want to. I don’t want to.” Quinn looks at me. “That’s it. I mean, there you have it. Like it’s that simple. Like I deserve everything I want.”

  “Well, maybe you do,” I tell her, and she pulls her eyes away from the dog for the first time, a doubtful look on her face, as though I’ve just told her a flat-out lie.

  “What happened with Rooster?” she asks suddenly.

  I tell her how Rooster acted at Flynn’s house, and how he’s upstairs, sleeping on his back with his legs in the air, as if nothing happened.

  “I mean, he seems fine now,” I tell her. “But it took him forever to calm down. I’ve never seen him act like that.”

  “What did Bent say about it?”

  “I haven’t told him.”

  She waits for me to continue. When I don’t, she looks at me sideways. “And why haven’t you told him?”

  “He’s weird about Flynn. And I can’t tell him without mentioning that Flynn was being a jerk earlier—he smelled like he’d been drinking, and his voice was loud, and he was sort of standing above us, yelling. I just wonder if it triggered something in Rooster. Maybe because of what happened with his owner. Bent said the guy who killed her didn’t even remember it because he was so drunk.”

  “The woman who gave me this little guy knows a lot about that type of stuff. I’ll ask her. I’m more worried about why your friend was yelling at you. Drunk. In the middle of the day.”

  “Remember when you told me the dog was a story for another day? Well—same.”

  She studies me. “You’ll come to me if you need to talk, right? Or just, you know, need anything.”

  “Yes—but do not let Desiree hear you say that anytime soon.”

  She gives me a puzzled look. “I’m serious, Libby. Whatever you need. Just ask.”

  I tilt my head at her. “In that case, any chance I can borrow your car tonight? I promise it will only be for, like, a half hour.”

  “Of course.” She gets up and walks over to her pocketbook, brings back her keys. “But you don’t need to be back that soon. I’m not going anywhere the rest of the night.”

  I place the puppy back on the blanket and stand up, decide it’s probably best not to mention that Desiree said the next time I borrowed her car, hell would be frozen over.

  I’m walking away when I hear her call my name. When I turn, she has a solemn expression on her face.

  “I have to make a decision this weekend,” she says. “I can’t keep putting off talking to John, but if I don’t keep the puppy . . . maybe you could come with me to bring him back?”

  I nod, and she closes the door. But not before I see her eyes fill.

  I get in the car and drive to Jimmy’s—he finally answered one of my texts and said he needed to talk to me.

  There’s a chance Bent could come home and find me gone, but when I talked to him an hour ago, he got off the line quick because there was a pileup on the highway.

  And Lucy had called to remind me my dinner was in the fridge upstairs. She asked if I wanted to join her and Maddie instead, and when there was a pause on the phone while I tried to figure out who Maddie was, Lucy said, “We would love it if you joined us, Libby.”

  Something about the way she said we made me take the phone away from my ear and squint at it. I told her I had plans, and it wasn’t until Quinn pulled in the driveway that I remembered Desiree talking about how Lucy was never home anymore since she started hanging out with Quinn’s boss.

  Bent had raised an eyebrow, asked if Desiree was jealous that Madeline had taken away her only friend. I’d left the room when Desiree gave him the finger, sick to death of them arguing with being stuck in the house all week.

  Now I turn onto Jimmy’s street and park in front. The house is dark, and I text him that I’m walking around to the back, but the phone rings a second later, and it’s him, telling me to wait—he’ll be right down.

  There’s something in his voice that I’ve never heard before, and when he jogs down the back stairs, I can see by the way he’s not looking at me that something is wrong.

  He stands in front of me, his arms crossed.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he says unconvincingly.

  “Your text said you wanted to talk. Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, I mean I’ve got a lot of shit going on. I really just wanted to say goodbye. You know, I’m leaving, so—”

  “Wait—you’re leaving now? I thought you had until the beginning of September?”

  He shifts his weight, an anxious look on his face. “No—it’s . . . I’m leaving when I told you. It’s just . . . I’m going to be busy with packing and getting ready.”

  I picture the military bag in the corner of his empty room. Packed and ready to go. “That’s more than a week away—”

  “I can’t see you anymore,” he says abruptly, glancing at me and then looking at his feet. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just for the best.”

  “Best for who?”

  “Libby—I’m leaving for a year. And you’re still in high school and your father doesn’t even like me. . . .” His voice trails off.

  I study his face. He refuses to look at me. “How about the real reason now? Let me guess—Flynn?”

  He meets my eyes. “He’s my brother, Libby.”

  “So just like that, he says you can’t see me, and you say what? Fine? No problem?”

  “I didn’t say fine! He was upset—he knew you were here the other night. I told him nothing happened, but he doesn’t believe me.”

  “It’s none of his business—”

  “Stop!” His eyes flash, and he puts his hand up. “I can’t do this, Libby. It’s not fair to you—and that’s my fault. That’s on me. He’s my brother and he’s asking me to step away. Look, he doesn’t really believe I’m going to stay sober. And hell, I deserve that—I do. I can’t fix that I made my house a shitty place to live when he was growing up. I can’t go back and fix it. But I have to do this. Do you understand? I have to try to make it right between us.”

  “And not seeing me . . . that makes it right?”

  He tilts his head at me. “He’s just trying to protect you. That’s how much of an asshole my brother thinks I am.”

  “He was drunk today. Well, drinking. Did he tell you that? Maybe ask him what he has to say about walking in your footsteps?”

  He puts his hands in his pockets, breathes out. “That’s part of it. We made a deal. I leave you alone, and he knocks it off with the booze and whatever else.”

  “Well, happy to be your bargaining chip,” I tell him, and he winces.

  “Libby—this isn’t what I want—” he
starts, then stops. “I’m sorry,” he tells me in a quiet voice, and then he’s gone, climbing the stairs and disappearing inside the house.

  The light in his bedroom turns off, as though he wants to make sure I know I’m not welcome anymore.

  I cross the backyard toward the path alongside the house. Out of the corner of my eye, an orange glow lights up the dark.

  “Trouble in paradise?” a voice says.

  I look past the big elm in the middle of the backyard. Quinn’s husband is sitting in a lawn chair behind it, only a few feet away from me, invisible if not for the light from the cigarette in his hand.

  “That’s creepy,” I tell him. “Do you eavesdrop all the time?”

  “No,” he says simply, as though it’s an honest question. “Only when it’s more awkward to tell someone I’m here than to pretend I’m not.”

  “Why are you here? I thought you came home to be with Quinn, and you’re here, like, every time I come over.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Is that what she wants? To be with me?”

  I snort. “Why don’t you ask her? I mean, she’s your wife.”

  “She doesn’t want to be with me,” he says, ignoring my question. “She thinks she does, but she doesn’t.” He pulls a bottle from between his legs and takes a sip. “She wants the house, the kids, the white picket fence. The American dream.” He laughs. “The American fucking dream . . .” he slurs and takes another sip.

  “So? What’s wrong with that?”

  He looks over at me, surprised. “Nothing wrong with it. It’s just there’s two sides to that dream—the ones who live it, right here. And the ones who go out and fight for it. Maybe some people know how to do both. But I don’t.”

  “Is that what you came home to tell her? That you’re leaving?”

  “I was always leaving. I’ve been training in special ops since I left. I told her I was going back. We had some . . . words . . . before I left. Thought we could both use some time to cool off.”